


His Beautiful Monsters

by ClementineStarling



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power."</p><p>Some random musings on Frank's relations with Zoe and Peter.<br/>A sexually explicit situation (with PR, so this is mostly slash).<br/>No money-shot. Not even spoilers. </p><p>Since nothing can be possibly worse than the series itself (well, I'm exaggerating, but you get the drift), I give no extra warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Beautiful Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> I blame [Jaq](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqueline_nutweasel) for this.  
> (It's always such a pleasure to share obsessions with you, love! :*)

Frank reads people like _they_ read the newspaper. To him they're like books, splayed open, spine bent, cover faded and worn (or wrapped in a shiny new dust jacket in a weak attempt at colouring the content), to flip through at his leisure, skim the pages of their minds until he finds what he's looking for. Usually it does not take long, most people are plain and simple. They carry their beliefs like banners and wear their ambitions like shields. Desires, secrets, dreams – they are but a tangle of strings to pull, an assortment of buttons to push. It is almost too easy. 

Perhaps that's why of late, he has become reckless, has chosen toys instead of tools. They stuck out from the grey-faced, featureless crowd, caught his eye and he was too enticed to just drop them when they'd fulfilled their purpose. Something about them sparked his interest, something else than their good looks that is. He sees them as raw diamonds, the possibility of a different beauty already shining through them, and he longs to pull this veil aside and reveal their true shape. He wants to form them, to corrupt them, to see them thrive. He has never felt a desire for children of his own, so he supposes, this is as close as he'll get: taking a fancy, moulding them to the print of his hand, touching their minds, their lives, their bodies.

Zoe Barnes, aspiring journalist – talented, innocent, easily goaded. At first he only intended to use her as a device of communication, for her generation's natural link to digital media, a connection like a virtual umbilical cord, then discard her like a burner phone. But he changes his mind when he sees how eagerly she swallows the pieces of information he feeds her. Greedy little thing, she would lick them off his hands if they were real, physical crumbs from his table. How could he withstand the temptation to groom her into prominence? He can see how she yearns for attention, the way she leans into his palm when he cups her face, the way her eyes gleam when he tells her of her rising fame, the way her mouth opens when he thrusts into her. As if the pleasure was unbearable. But he knows that the thrill for her lies not in the sex itself, it's the closeness to power that gets her off. Nothing new when it comes to women, the are, after all, twisted by social conventions into longing for the pleasure of others more than their own. Gazing at them is like looking into a mirror reflecting desire.

Zoe is no exception, she wants to be seen and be heard, wants to be told how brilliant she is and how pretty. He is rather certain she's only sleeping with him for the reward, for the power that comes through knowledge, for his continual favour. She thinks she can bind him like this, enthrall him. It's a fool's errand, but it turns him on all the same. How she believes she can reign him, rule him, how she gets all wet for him in exchange for stories and words and truth. It proves who he is, more than anything.

So when he fucks her, he thinks of the ripple of news rather than moans, he sees himself reflected in her power-drunk eyes, a mirror within a mirror. He enjoys her, her body, her pliancy, even the occasional rebellion. He adores how her mind spins him into a narrative, makes her want him out of sheer ambition. It's never been truer that heterosexual sex is about dominance. 

Peter on the other hand is a different story. 

He's a junkie. Simple as that. Whatever the kick, thrill, high or habit – he's in for the ride. He lives for the dark, mindless pleasure of the flesh, the sweet oblivion of intoxication. It is a weakness that works to Frank's advantage – he knows only to well how to make use of it. The only shortcoming is Peter having no concept of delayed gratification. Something he must be taught, by all means, if Frank wants him to become a reliable tool. He needs guidance, a firm hand, a good scolding here and there, but Frank is convinced that with a bit of discipline he will make a decent enough soldier in his growing army of minions. 

Though despite of what Frank already knows and plans, he is not prepared for such blatant eagerness. He recognises the first shadow of surrender in their first confrontation, the brief flash of something dark in his puppy eyes, a strange twist of his wide smile. Then unhesitant obedience. Frank is nearly disappointed by the lack of opposition. And he keeps wondering for weeks if he imagined the swift glance at his belt buckle and the quick flick of tongue over his lips. Anticipation. 

But then comes the day, when Peter arrives at his house, blind-drunk and angry, and while he might still believe in the righteous cause of his temper, Frank can see right through the pretence. What Russo really craves is to be relieved of the responsibility, and not, as suggested, with the help of a razor blade. He needs someone else to take the burden, someone to tell him what to do, even if he claims otherwise. Challenging Frank is only the prelude. Just enough resistance for spice.

After he has left Peter in the bathtub to make a decision, he returns to the guest room and he waits. A couple of seemingly endless minutes he is pondering on blood and a lifeless body in his tub, so vivid in his mind that he nearly believes it to be true, but then Peter comes back (not that he _really_ expected anything different), pretty alive and rather nude, naked but for towel loosely slung around his narrow hips, droplets still running over his chest, following the trail of hair downwards. 

Something is stirring deep in Frank's belly. It has been a while that he's been with a man, and he tells himself that's because it requires more secrecy, more discretion. But the truth is that between men the hierarchical structure works differently. They are not brought up to please, they must be trained. It takes time, it takes effort, and Francis rarely finds someone worth the effort. Only now that his eyes trail over the quite naked and also quite formidable body of congressman Russo, he reconsiders this assessment. But then again, not much of a revelation. If he had not thought about it, he would hardly be here, sitting on the bed's edge.

Peter is surprised, but just for a second, then realisation glints in his eyes, unmistakable this time, followed by a sly smile, and he lets go of the towel. 

All air leaves the room. Frank's finger dig into his thighs as he tries to stay seated and calm, his gaze unwavering. He takes in the plunge of collarbone into pecs, the smooth, slender muscles, the sharp angle of hipbone, the arrow-line of a torso – Peter is gorgeous, no doubt.

“Kneel for me”, he says, willing his voice not to sound as breathless as he feels, and Russo obeys, without hesitance, right where he stands.

It's a power rush, this unquestioning submission, and he savours it for a bit before he gets to his feet and walks over, reaches out to touch Peter's cheek, ever so lightly.  
“You've done this before?”, he asks softly and Peter nods with downcast eyes.  
He grants him this moment of tenderness, a gentle caress of his face, then tilts his head upwards. The blue of his gaze is almost intolerable, his lips slightly parted. Excitement crawls over Frank's skin.  
“We will set some rules”, he says, because that is what one must do in such situations. “But first you tell me what you want.”

Peter bites his lips. He looks so incredibly young, like a school boy, and Frank can't tell if he's only playing coy on him, or if he's really shy. He runs his thumb along curve of his lower lip, and Peter opens up and swallows it. Slick, hot, eager, his mouth will be so good around his cock, Francis thinks, but he needs him to say it, to beg for it. 

“What do you want, Peter?”, he croons. A question that has all kinds of answers. Power. Money. A future. A career. Family. Pleasure.

He knows of course, what it is that he wants: to shed control like a dirty shirt, strip off all obligations, let himself fall into it a frenzy of lust. Be but a mindless tangle of nerve endings and bliss. It is an enjoyment Francis cannot allow himself, but he knows how to give it, knows the ropes, so to speak, and the joy than can be brought about by submission, perhaps even by inflicting a bit of pain. How it makes sensations blur after a while, indistinguishable to the overwrought brain, it is said to be most delicious. Also he himself revels in seeing his hand-print red, swollen on a lusciously round butt or the angry welts of a crop on a broad back.

“Do you suck cock, Peter?”, he asks, and again Russo only nods, but this time their gazes are locked and he can see the flicker of desire, and he withdraws his hand to slip off his suspenders, unbutton his trousers. It is then that Peter finally speaks. 

“Allow me”, he says and waits just that one short moment of obedience that makes all the difference (and the blood pound in Frank's ears), before he raises his hands and unzips him with nimble fingers. His hands are steady and warm as he slides the fabric over Frank's hips, skin brushing upon skin. A careful, respectful touch. His fingers linger briefly on his thighs, then, with another glance asking for permission, he runs them upwards, tracing the underside of Frank's balls.

Frank does not have much time to relish the gentle caress of strong, labour-worn hands, a testimony that Peter has not always been a congressman, and also a reminder of the brute force that slumbers within a male body, so sweet in its surrender, though the actual lick of a tongue and suck of a mouth are sweeter still. If Peter had hair, he would tangle his hands in it and pull, pull him forwards, onto his cock, yank until the roots threatened to give and tears welled up in Peter's eyes. But as things are he just rests his fingers lightly against the stubble on his scalp and lets Peter swallow him, who does so eagerly, sucks him with addict-abandon.

The arousal curls in his blood, thick ripples of lust streaming towards his loins with every move of Peter's head, and Frank tilts back his head and closes his eyes, for a moment just enjoying the sensation of a greedy mouth on his cock.

The trade is simple – and it is not. Pleasure for pleasure, power for relief, dominance for submission. No infinite reflection of relations. And yet something twisted, something perilous lies underneath it all, taboo, forbiddance, sin, the thrill of breaking a rule, of a sudden shift in hierarchy, a threat of physical violence. Frank could never completely the shake the school-boy-memories, the Southerner in the back of his mind. But perhaps that's the reason he does this – defiance against the rules. He is to be above them all, that's what he aspires to. That's also how he decides not to take the safe road but to go through with this all the way. However tempting it is, just to finish like this, buried deep in Peter's mouth, it would not serve the purpose.

So he takes a step back and sweet Jesus, Peter makes for a breath-taking sight, eyes glazed, lips swollen, that treacherous thread of saliva, the stir of arousal obvious. God, he needs a condom. He needs lube. “Get on the bed”, Frank croaks.

Peter gets to his feet in a motion that can only be described as graceful. But before he does as he is bid, he leans down to his clothes to search for something. He must have read his thoughts, perhaps due to regular encounters with such situations, because what he retrieves is a rubber and a sachet of lubricant. Without looking at Frank he places the paraphernalia on the bedside table and crawls on the mattress.

"Kneel. Face towards the wall", Frank says. The muscles flex in Peter's back, small hollows and long strands and beautiful dimples. He is perfectly centred on the bed, and Frank can't help to be impressed by his preconception again as he places his hand between Peter's shoulder blades and presses him gently down, so his forehead comes to rest against the pillows.

“Just like this”, Frank whispers. Peter's ribcage ebbs and flows with breath under his palm. He can feel the excitement coursing through his body. 

“You want this?”, Frank asks and Russo nods, but that's not enough. “Answer me, Peter”, he demands. 

“Yes.” His voice is muffled by the pillow, but the word is unmistakable. Consent is magic, the ultimate power. He will make a perfect governor, Frank thinks while he takes off the remainder of his clothes and grabs for the lube. The thought turns him on even more. He imagines how beautiful this body would look bound or shackled. 

“What do you want, Peter?”, he asks as he kneels behind Russo. “Tell me what you want.”

Even though he already knows the answer, he waits for Peter to say it out loud.  
“I want you, Sir.”

“What is it exactly that you want?” The tone is smooth as silk. He trails a finger over the vertebrae down his spine and lower. He sees how the body trembles beneath him.

“I want you to fuck me.” It is barely more than a whisper this time. Frank can see the hint of a blush creeping over Peter's skin. Embarrassment must simmer in his guts, just as he intended. Humiliation is part of this game. There is nothing to hide from him any more, he will delve deep into Peter's mind, learn every dream, every wish, every carnal desire, and he will try to fulfil it to the best of his abilities. In exchange for other services and unquestioning obedience.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I know... what a stupid moment to stop. But I did not see where else this might lead. So, I am profoundly sorry. I was simply too uninspired to write on.


End file.
